She encouraged Danyers to speak of himself; to
confide his ambitions to her; she asked him the questions which are the
wise woman's substitute for advice.
"You must write," she said, administering the most exquisite flattery that
human lips could give.
Of course he meant to write--why not to do something great in his turn?
His best, at least; with the resolve, at the outset, that his best should
be _the_ best. Nothing less seemed possible with that mandate in his ears.
How she had divined him; lifted and disentangled his groping ambitions;
laid the awakening touch on his spirit with her creative _Let there be
light!_
It was his last day with her, and he was feeling very hopeless and happy.
"You ought to write a book about _him,"_ she went on gently.
Danyers started; he was beginning to dislike Rendle's way of walking in
unannounced.
"You ought to do it," she insisted. "A complete interpretation--a summing-
up of his style, his purpose, his theory of life and art. No one else
could do it as well."
He sat looking at her perplexedly. Suddenly--dared he guess?
"I couldn't do it without you," he faltered.
"I could help you--I would help you, of course."
They sat silent, both looking at the lake.
It was agreed, when they parted, that he should rejoin her six weeks later
in Venice. There they were to talk about the book.
III
_Lago d'Iseo, August 14th_.
When I said good-by to you yesterday I promised to come back to Venice in
a week: I was to give you your answer then.
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